


For Happily Ever Aftering

by queenklu



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 03:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Arthur go see <i>Camelot</i> - the hit broadway musical. This is Non-Au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Happily Ever Aftering

“I can’t believe—" Merlin starts for what has to be the hundredth time, but snaps his mouth shut because—well, because he can believe it, and also because announcing, “we’re breaking our fifty year streak of _not seeing this blasted play_ ,” in the middle of a pack of Julie Andrews enthusiasts while looking barely old enough to drink is probably not the best plan.

Turns out Merlin doesn’t have to say it to get the programmed response—“Because you love me, you twat.”—before Arthur yanks him out of the suddenly bristling herd, dragging in the direction of their seats. Merlin glares at the back of his head and tries not to imagine it on fire; It’s insufferably true. Sometimes Merlin will catch himself thinking in an abstract way that things might go better if Arthur wasn’t so damned sure of Merlin's feelings, but then Arthur throws a blinding smile over his shoulder, golden hair turned bronze in the theater lights, and there’s no spell on earth that could make him wish different.

 

Still.

 

The biddies have twittered off to a corner (which is a good sixty feet away from the stage and behind a pillar, Merlin notes with a flicker of satisfaction) but Arthur keeps tugging at the edge of his sleeve until they’re—this can’t be right. “Sixth row, center,” Arthur supplies when Merlin’s mind stalls out with his feet, then he gets a better grip on Merlin's shirt and keeps pulling.

 

Merlin stares at him a moment as he stumbles along, not so much uncomprehendingly than letting realization dawn. He’d stayed out of the whole planning process on general principle, half certain Arthur was kidding and half hoping he’d change his mind. But sixth row center? Seats like that cost an arm and a leg, for good reason. That means something.

  
That means Arthur cares. Merlin's gaze softens in spite of itself.  
 

They’ve done good blending in, Merlin thinks with a stress on the colloquialism because after half a lifetime in the states he _can_. When this play first opened on Broadway, they’d have been showed the door in their dress jeans and button-ups, and not pleasantly, which Merlin has to admit was a big part of why he’d put his foot down in 1960. Arthur doesn’t mind strutting around like a peacock (his sea-blue top with pale silvery accents isn’t exactly subtle) but he still hasn’t forgiven fashion for effectively killing colorful suits.

 

Tonight, though? Tonight they look as well dressed as most in the theater and still with that just-walked-in-off-the-streets ease, just two buddies who might be a bit more if someone managed to glimpse the way they stand a little too close, the taller just behind the shorter, body curled around him like a shield or a plant reaching for the sun.

 

It also doesn’t hurt if they notice the blond palming his ass.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin blurts, surprised and failing spectacularly at a stern look. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”

 

“Mm,” Arthur hums, half teasing innocence and the other half delving into that dark purr that should not be used in public as he slides past Merlin to lead down a row with rather a lot more rubbing than is strictly necessary. “Did you have something in mind?”

 

Arthur had grabbed onto the homosexual revolution rocking the globe and continues to run with it like he doesn’t quite believe it’s going to last. Merlin, after literal lifetimes spent pretending to be brothers or close cousins, still has trouble sometimes remembering that he’s allowed and even occasionally encouraged to show affection in public.

 

He clasps Arthur’s hand as they reach their seats, threading their fingers together when Arthur half-heartedly tries to hide his surprise from a man who’s spent thousands of years watching him move.

 

 _I do, you know_ , he whispers, letting the magic wash gently over Arthur’s consciousness in a caress that means _do love_ and _do have something in mind_ with an amused sparkle to it. Arthur shivers next to him, grin teasing at the corners of his mouth even though he keeps his gaze fixed on the stage. Merlin is just about to do something about that when the houselights go down.

 

The only problem is, he can _feel_ that grin get wider when ‘Merlin’ trundles out on stage, looking something like Gaius’s grandmother cross-dressing as Dumbledore. God, Merlin hates Harry Potter. He stifles a groan and sinks lower in his seat. This was another excellent reason why he didn’t want to go.

 

He gets his own back pretty fast when ‘Arthur’ turns out to be a bit of a bumbling idiot, running away from the palace and hiding in a _tree_ to escape his upcoming nuptials. 

 

“This play is historically inaccurate,” Arthur hisses at his side, earning them a startled glance from the man to his left.

 

“You knew that when we came,” Merlin whispers back. “You’ve been bitching about being raised a country bumpkin since Geoffrey’s manuscripts were found.”

 

“Fanfiction,” Arthur spits under his breath, the same way he has since history invented the word (if not the concept). “Outrageous, AU, _het slander.”_

 

“Hush up,” Merlin scolds, trying not to snort, “Gwen’s about to sing.”

 

He doesn’t mean to call this actress Gwen, but he definitely isn’t prepared for the sharp pang of sadness even with her thousands of years gone. Arthur’s hand tightens comfortingly around Merlin’s, and then they’re both distracted (and somewhat appalled) at how Gwen is apparently _Morgana._

 

Although Morgana never cared a bit for ‘the simple joys of maidenhood,’ when this conglomerate being sings, “ _Shall kith not kill their kin for me?”_ they both wince a little. And Merlin kicks himself for the millionth time about not letting the little druid boy choke in his own bodily fluids. Merlin went half out of his mind with rage and despair the day Mordred fulfilled his particular destiny, thanks so much. It doesn't matter that it was that insanity that tied their souls together for all time.

 

Pretty soon though, Merlin’s fighting off a massive giggle fit watching ‘Arthur’ hit on ‘Gwen,’ because this bragging, boasting, bouncing boy is pretty much spot on. In the worst possible way. And the fact that Arthur is tensing beside him with something like indignation? That is most definitely not helping.

 

“Then Merlin’s voice came drifting to me from a distance,” ‘Arthur’ proclaims, rather childishly, “and he said, ‘Arthur! It’s too late for you to be out thinking!’”

 

Merlin _dies._

 

It’s covered pretty quickly by the rest of the audience laughing, but by the time they quiet Merlin’s still bent double in his seat, trying to get enough air to _breathe_.

 

“Are you alright, honey?” Arthur asks trough his teeth, subtly using the comforting hand on Merlin’s back to hold him down, further cutting off his air until Merlin bats weakly at his ankle.

 

When Arthur lets him up Merlin goes, doesn’t stop moving until his lips are brushing Arthur’s. “Thinking, in this instance, might not have been such a bad idea,” he whispers, and the stunned look on Arthur’s face is enough to warrant a kiss.

 

Then ‘Merlin’ trundles back on stage and gets seduced by Nimueh, and he is never seen from again. Which is just fine, honestly, because even the half-formed thought of doing the nasty with Nimueh, let alone doing it in a body that’s a hundred and ten years old, is enough to turn Merlin’s stomach. Arthur thinks it’s hilarious.

 

It pretty much goes back and forth the rest of the play, though Arthur is at a distinct disadvantage with ‘Merlin’ gone in act one. They both scoff at the idea of Lancelot being _French_ —Arthur was with him one time Gwen tried to impress him by reading him French poetry; he’d turned bright red and then left with one of her shoes. Their friends had been such the complete opposite of this angst-ridden onstage pair, as blissfully happy together from their first to last days. It’s amusing, like a parody or a satire or some other word that makes more sense, like watching the ghosts of their friends mimic the distorted echoes of their lives.

 

But. Merlin never had that infinitesimal curl of heat in his gut when the real life Lancelot sang.

 

“ _If ever I would leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer…Seeing you in summer, I never would go!”_

 

Maybe it’s the orchestra, the vibrations and the swelling of the music singing through his ribcage. Merlin tries to squirm in his seat without making it obvious.

 

 _“But if I'd ever leave you, it couldn't be in autumn. How I'd leave in autumn I never will know!”_

 

He’s got ‘Guinevere’ by the hand, barest touch keeping her there. Maybe that’s—

 

 _“I've seen how you sparkle when fall nips—“_ Sharp teeth graze Merlin’s shoulder, and he jumps so hard he almost pulls something. Arthur’s laughing too hard to finish singing _“the air”_ with Lancelot on stage, but he still manages to move his mouth with the words, sensuous roll of his lips distorted by his grin. _“I know you in autumn and I must be there.”_

 

Merlin closes his eyes in an attempt to calm his heart, but Arthur takes that as a sign to lean close, low voice sliding past every one of his barriers and fanning the heat in his bones to an almost unbearable level. So many centuries together, Arthur can paint a masterpiece with Merlin’s body, conduct a symphony from his reactions. But does he have to do it here?  
 _  
_ _"And could I leave you running merrily through the snow?”_ His lips brush the barest edge of Merlin’s ear, and he can’t even hear Lancelot’s voice anymore, minute tremors fanning across his skin. _“Or on a wintry evening when you catch the fire's glow?”_

Their first time had been the dead of winter, rutting up against each other for warmth as much as fierce desperate need. Arthur tells him he’s remembering it with the curl of his fingers on his thigh, curving down to brush the tender flesh behind his knee.

  
" _If ever I would leave you, how could it be in spring-time? Knowing how in spring I'm bewitched by you so?”_

 

It’s murmured into the skin behind his jaw, and the people behind them must think he’s just resting his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, and not that his boyfriend is about one splayed hand away from spilling in a hot mess inside his good jeans.

 _  
”Oh, no, not in spring-time! Summer, winter or fall!”_

 

 _It’s more than sex_ , Merlin thinks though the haze, trying desperately to buy himself some time by defining Arthur’s power over him. _It’s trust, knowing, loving, being—two sides of a—_

 _  
_Arthur stretches his hand low on Merlin’s belly, little finger sliding just under the damp patch by his zipper, rubbing just under the head as Arthur sings the last words against his jugular— _"No, never could I leave you…at all!”_

 

When Merlin comes back to himself, body still pulsing slick into his boxers, Arthur’s got an arm around his shoulder, letting him muffle his panting breaths against Arthur’s collarbone. Merlin, when he can, sucks a hickey there in retaliation, then pulls his boneless body back (more or less) into his own allotted space while Arthur’s still pouting about it. He hates being marked when he can’t reciprocate, and the elderly gentleman on his left is starting to sneak looks.

 

On stage, Lancelot and Guinevere are bringing about the doom of Camelot, but you see one of those (or in their case, live through it) you’ve seen ‘em all. Merlin lets his eyes close just in case they flash in the dark, and gives Arthur’s consciousness another caress.

 

 _Happy Anniversary,_ he says, letting his hand clasp and rest on Arthur’s thigh. _My lord._

 

 

 

 

 

The End


End file.
